


revolution is not a one time event

by danielmorgans



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, i'm sorry for my everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danielmorgans/pseuds/danielmorgans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dread curls around his spine, tight and unforgiving, and the bottle in his hand isn’t going to be enough to quell it, isn’t going to be able to make him see past the self-loathing, the liquor ingrained into his skin, bleeding through his pores and polluting the air around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	revolution is not a one time event

Dread curls around his spine, tight and unforgiving, and the bottle in his hand isn’t going to be enough to quell it, isn’t going to be able to make him see past the self-loathing, the liquor ingrained into his skin, bleeding through his pores and polluting the air around him. 

 He shoves a cigarette between his chapped lips and lights it with a lilting smirk, eyes following his Apollo, who’s lips have curled in anger and cheeks have flushed in barely concealed contempt. He pulls the cigarette from his lips and blows smoke rings -  _months of skipped classes for practice -_ towards his Apollo with a wink, and he’s gone. Heavy boots clattering to the floor, the rustle of leather, a low murmur of disapproval, a wink to Bahorel, and then out into the grimy Paris air, as comforting to him as a bottle. 

He finishes his cigarette, and then another, buds littering the concrete at his feet as he rests against the damp wall, waiting. It’s not long before a warm body is pressed against his side, their chin resting on his shoulder and their warm breath hitting his neck. He tenses -  _habit, habit, I’m sorry_  - before allowing his shoulders to drop and turning his head enough to bury his face his Courfeyrac’s hair, to bury the words beginning to rise in his throat that are sounding an awful lot like apologies. 

Courfeyrac tangles their fingers together, mouthing his words against Grantaire’s skin, “ _let’s get out of here._ ” He answers with a smirk, and presses a kiss to Courfeyrac’s jaw, head mulling over the words he had whispered all those months ago in a drunken haze, words that have become a joke and a promise and a declaration.

They stumble towards Courfeyrac’s place, hands always touching, lips pressed to skin, shirts rucked up and hair mused. Indecent, reckless, rebellious.  _And here_ , he thinks, pressing Courfeyrac up against a wall and biting at his neck,  _here is your revolution, Enjolras._

They fall through the door of Courfeyrac’s shitty apartment, with heaving chests and swollen lips, and Grantaire can’t stop touching, can’t get close enough, can’t quite get his spine to loosen out, so he drops to his knee’s and listens to someone recite his name like it’s a prayer for a change. 

Later, when they’re spread across filthy sheets, and Courfeyrac is curled around his spine like smoke, Grantaire watches the steady rise and fall of his chest -  _fuck, Courf, fuck, what did we do, we can’t, this doesn’t mean anything, nothing_  - and paints Apollo into his skin. 


End file.
